away, but we must be ready to greet the guests.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Myth, for this delightful conversation. I hope we can renew it later during the luncheon.” Gwendafyn bestowed a smile upon Myth before the legendary pair swept off, as beautiful as a painting.
Myth sighed and tried not to melt into a puddle. “She is so good.”
Arvel folded his arms across his chest and slightly nudged her. “What did you think of Benjimir?”
“He is also quite splendid as well.”
Arvel leaned back so he could study her with narrowed eyes. “What? He’s not a lesser like me?”
“He is married to My Princess Gwendafyn; thus, I am fully prepared to embrace him as a legend as well.”
“But you gave me that look when I pointed out that I’m Fyn’s bond partner!” Arvel squawked.
Myth, unable to help herself, gave him another pitying look. “It’s all right. One day I’m sure your position of…” she purposely paused and looked extra pitying, “crown prince…will bring you glory just as your brother and My Princess Gwendafyn have found.”
“Considering you can look as polite as the best of the elves and have that face that hides what you’re thinking, you have a poisonous tongue, Myth,” Arvel complained. “Besides, you said I was your employer; haven’t you heard of employee loyalty?”
“I shall endeavor to display all signs of employee loyalty once you personally hand me my wages.”
Arvel laughed deeply. “Oh, Myth. I think social events are going to be a great deal more fun with you around.”
“One can only hope. Should you not join your family in the line to receive guests?”
“Yes, I don’t think we can avoid it much longer. Come.” Arvel abandoned his glass to the care of a servant. “I’ll squirm between Benjimir and Fyn so you can stand by your hero.”
“I’ve always said crown princes make the best employers.”
“That’s what I want to hear!”
“That sounds beautiful! Translator Myth, please express my delight on my behalf?” a Calnorian lord asked.
His wife nodded excitedly. “And please add my awe—Jubilee sounds like a place of beauty. Does it really have one thousand trees in it?”
Myth was already murmuring to the two visiting elf nobles who made up the other half of the conversation, using subtle hand gestures to motion to the Calnorian lord and lady and express their feelings on the matter.
The elves smiled and gracefully tipped their heads in bows of acceptance, before they made their reply in Elvish.
Arvel appeared to listen to the conversation webbed around him, but in reality, he was watching Myth.
As a translator, she kept the conversation spinning flawlessly—as if it were a dance. There wasn’t the usual awkward stop-and-go that most translated conversations had. Rather, it was almost like Myth was presiding over the conversation, and kept it going with a few subtle nudges. He hadn’t noticed that in other translators—was he just blind to it, or was Myth really that good?
I can’t say for certain. I’m aware I’ve only paid more attention to the role since Myth joined me.
She wasn’t perfect—or maybe a better description was she felt she wasn’t perfect enough. She hadn’t made any mistakes so far in their first social event, but she’d hesitated a few times before apparently finding the rhythm in her translations.
Arvel shifted his stance, allowing him to discreetly adjust one of his daggers hidden inside his waistcoat, which had been poking him in the ribs. He paused when the Calnorian lady said something directly to Myth, which made her smile before she turned and relayed the comment to the elf lords.
“Arvel, my boy! Good to see you, lad!” King Petyrr exploded onto the scene with the sudden appearance of someone who shouldn’t be able to move around so silently while a translator, a kitchen boy carrying a puppy, two aides, and a chef trailed in his wake.
He affectionately smacked Arvel between the shoulders, and gave his sunny smile to the Calnorian nobles and the visiting elf lords. “Sorry to interrupt this delightful little meeting of yours, but might I steal my son for a moment? His lovely little translator will stay with you to translate until I bring him back.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” the two Calnorian nobles were quick to say.
Myth appeared to translate this to the elves with the serenity of a tranquil stream, which surprised Arvel a little. Most people weren’t so unflappable when faced with the fullness that was King Petyrr. He was a joyful man to behold and was even more larger-than-life when viewed closer.
The elves murmured